


And Child

by Cunien



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Cleft lip, Cleft palate, Gen, Hare lip, Period Typical Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 16:40:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1786063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cunien/pseuds/Cunien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <strong>There's something guarded about the other boy when he returns Porthos' gaze, something cool and pulled back. "My father doesn't like them to see me. He's a Comte."</strong>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <strong>"Because of that?" Porthos asks, waving at the other boy's face. </strong></p><p>  <strong>The blue eyes narrow.</strong></p><p>Porthos sneaks into the cathedral to see the mass for the birthday of the five year old Prince, and meets a son of the nobility.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Child

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this super super quickly on the train today. Un-beta'd and a little rough around the edges.
> 
> Warning for period-typical attitudes towards cleft-palates/lips and "facial birth defects"

"Only a bit littler than you," Flea says, shunting her shoulder hard into Porthos' side. He wobbles a little and throws out his hands to steady himself where they sit, legs dangling over the edge of the roof. The sun has heated the orange tiles to a burning warmth he can feel through the thinning fabric of his breeches. Porthos lifts his hand, inspecting the slightly pink skin where it has pressed hard on the terracotta. 

"Five years old," he says, feigning disinterest. "I'm six. That's a lot olderer."

Charon laughs on his other side and puts out a hand to ruffle Porthos' hair, a habit he seems to be developing. Porthos doesn't like it: it makes him feel small and stupid, makes his cheeks burn when Charon tugs at the matted bits, the way it's grown tangled together. It makes him think of Her.

Her hair had gone that way in the end, though Porthos had tried his best to keep it clean and untangled, like it was before she got sick. He would sing for Her as he brushed it, the crooning mix of Spanish and French and English she'd picked up between plantation and ship and one master and the other, the strange clicking language of home. Porthos sang it, the way she would when he was sick and little and afraid, but it never seemed to calm Her as it did him.

But he doesn't want to think about Her, anymore.

Flea sniffs and spits down at the street, smirking when a surprised shriek floats up to where they sit. "No matter anyway. He's not like us."

"He'll be king one day."

"Obviously," Charon says with a scowl.

"The king has a daughter too," Flea says, a note of something corroded in her voice, "Why can't she be King?"

"'Cause she's a _girl,_ Flea. Girls can't be kings."

"They can be Queens," Porthos offers, but all he's given by Flea is a "humph" in return. 

"This is boring," she says after a while. "All I can see is a lot of stupid people and stupid carriages. I want to see him. So we can throw something at the little shit."

"You'll get arrested," Porthos says. 

"By who, city guards?"

All three of them scoff, and spit heartily down at the street below. 

"They'd have to catch us first," Charon grins.

*  
Flea leads them to an alley that snakes around a corner and arcs back on itself like a dog's leg. From here it's a clamber up some old brickwork, a small leap between two rooftops and down some crumbling steps. 

The sewer is old and abandoned, thank god, but Flea assures them there's a gap that leads into the crypts beneath the cathedral. 

Though the youngest, Porthos knows he is big for his age. But the fact remains that Flea and Charon are some years older and he alone is small enough to fit through the gap into the crypts. 

"There's a little roomy bit to the left of the big cross at the top. You can let us in the window from there."

Porthos frowns, not entirely sure that this isn't some elaborate joke, that Flea and Charon aren't just laughing at him. His heart begins to flutter like something wild and scared and he clenches his hands till his ragged fingernails bite into the flesh of his palms. What if they leave him?

"Go on," Flea says, with a push.

"Porthos," Charon calls, "Left is this side." He waves a hand.

"I _know_ ," Porthos hisses, feeling the tips of his ears flush. He sucks in a breath and puts his arms through the gap, up to his shoulders, and begins to wiggle through. 

*

"Left, left, left," Porthos whispers, flexing his hand over and over so he doesn't forget which is which.

The crypts are dark, even for a boy who's been a year on the streets and five before that in poverty, used to dark doorways and unlit rooms.

Porthos is scared. The thin soles of his shoes are loose, flapping noisily on the stone floor no matter how softly he treads. The sound seems to echo about, bouncing back at him tenfold. He's not sure what a _crypt_ is, but knows he doesn't like it, doesn't like the way it gobbles us the sound of his panicked breaths like something alive, the dead stillness of the air.

By the time the steps ease up into the light Porthos is running, tripping over his broken shoes and falls, skinning his knees and biting his tongue hard enough to draw blood as his chin thunks against the ground.

He lies there a moment, tasting the coppery bite of blood and too afraid to move, sure that someone will have heard, that the city guard will be called and he'll be thrown into the chatelet and Flea and Charon will be too busy laughing at him to try to get him out. Only stupid Porthos could get caught by the stupid city guard. Flea and Charon will spit at the mention of his name and that will be that. Gone. Forgotten.

But to his very great surprise, no one comes to clap Porthos in irons and take him away, and it's not long before he feels brave enough to lift his head.

There are a few men rushing about in the building, their funny robes like dresses flapping sillily about their ankles. They look like a flock of startled birds, and it makes Porthos want to laugh, easing the panicked flutter in his belly. They don't seem to have noticed him, at any rate.

It's easy enough to keep low and hide behind the rows of wooden pews as he makes his way up the side of the vast room. The ceiling arches high above him, the windows made of glass in colours Porthos has never seen before, bright and brittle and distant. It all looks unreal, somehow, like something from a story. 

Until he sees Her, that is.

Of course, it's not really Her. Or maybe it is. Porthos can't really remember what She looked like, after all. 

The statue sits in an alcove just off from the main room, and the candles cluster thick and warm and flickering around her feet. The stone is smooth and pale, not at all like Her brown skin, but the the look in her eyes as she gazes down at the little baby in her arms is enough to make his heart cramp and twist, something hot and hard in his throat. Porthos thinks he might remember Her looking at him like that, once upon a time.

He wavers. He can't seem to recall why he is even here. There is nothing in Porthos' head and heart and body and soul but Her, the gentle crook of her arm, the stillness of her mouth lifted just so in a patient half smile meant only for her child.

Reaching out a hand, Porthos lets it brush lightly against the hard stone folds of Her dress. She is perhaps the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

His eyes prickle tightly, and a scalding tear is slipping down his cheek before he even realises. Porthos tries to stay quiet as he cries, and he's used to this, at least. 

"The Madonna," a voice says, beside him.

Porthos has the little blade in his hand before he's turned to the voice, holds it steadily in front of him, one arm out for balance like Charon taught him.

The boy is older than him, perhaps ten or eleven years of age, and is dressed in expensive clothing. Even so, Porthos could spot a noble a mile off, the way they stand, the way they hold themselves. This one has a scar, old and white, that runs through his top lip to his nose, and it lifts his mouth in a pout.

"Don't stare at me," the boy says cooly. His hand flutters at his side though, as if he's having to fight to keep it there, to keep it away from his scarred mouth. "An accident," he says after a moment, gazing levelly at Porthos.

"Liar," Porthos says, and the cold empty room takes his voice and lifts it up at the end like a question. The candles flicker at Her feet.

The Court of Miracles is home to all sorts, beggars and thieves and cripples, those born with deformities too. Porthos has seen a girl with a nub of tail at the base of her back and a man whose skin and hair was white like snow, eyes a soft pink. He has seen babies born with a gaping slice through their mouth and teeth and lips. Some of them even survived, with scars.

"What's a Madonna?" Porthos asks.

The older boy quirks his chin at the statue. "The Madonna and child. That is our lord Jesus Christ."

"But that's a baby," Porthos says, confused.

"He was a baby, once."

Porthos looks up at the statue, feeling his stomach drop, little by little. It's not Her, not really. She could never have looked at him like that when She held him, because he was just Porthos, and the fat little baby in the statue's arms is Jesus himself. Of course the Madonna would look on her child with such love, such tenderness. Her child is the son of God.

"I thought it was my mother," Porthos says before he can stop himself. The boy looks back at him, but doesn't laugh, and there's nothing mocking in his eyes.

"Where is she?" He asks.

"Dead," Porthos shrugs, and rolls his shoulders slowly, hoping that when the little circle of movement ends he'll somehow be left bigger, stronger than he is right now.

"Where's yours?"

The older boy's eyes flick towards the distant doorway. "Over there. We're waiting for the prince. It's a mass for his birthday."

"I know," Porthos mumbles. "He's only five. He's little."

The boy looks at him. "Yes."

"He'll be the king one day. When the old one dies."

"Yes."

Porthos studies the older boy.

"How come you're in here before everyone else?"

There's something guarded about the other boy when he returns Porthos' gaze, something cool and pulled back. "My father doesn't like them to see me. He's a Comte."

"Because of that?" Porthos asks, waving at the other boy's face. 

The blue eyes narrow.

"Why are _you_ here?"

"See the prince. Like you."

"But we're members of the court."

"Me too," Porthos returns.

The older boy smiles, just a ghost of a thing, lost almost instantly in the flicker of candlelight. 

The moment blurs, long and languid like an echo.

The older boy looks over towards the doorway and the thing breaks, shatters like ice, gone in a blink.

"They're starting to come in. You should go. Or hide."

"I don't really want to see him," Porthos says, looking again at the little stone baby in the statue's arms. The little prince will be fat and soft and loved like that, and suddenly Porthos cannot bear the thought of looking at him.

He turns, moving back towards the crypt without a word, feeling the distance between him and the other boy like a tension of string pulled taut for a moment. 

He doesn't look back.

**Author's Note:**

> I am in the midst of insanity whilst moving flat right now so have been rather silent, but this just came out if nowhere today.
> 
> Set 24 years before the series, so I can justify the fact that neither Porthos or Athos remember meeting each other as children.
> 
> I also love the idea that the uneducated Porthos can speak French, English, Spanish and more.


End file.
